that's mrs. mediocrity to you

. . .

when we all have wet feet and broken hearts and crooked arrows

incredulity becomes reality and mud sticks between toes

that refuse to stop walking

shutupshutupshutupshutup

the slap of heels on grooved wet pavement

it just keeps raining (pouring)

salt in old wounds

no time to heal

no time

time

on time

an hourglass

of sacrificial sand

it just keeps raining (pouring)

the slap of heels on grooved wet pavement

shutupshutupshutupshutup

that refuse to stop walking

incredulity becomes reality and mud sticks between toes

when we all have wet feet and broken hearts and crooked arrows

. . .

a frozen sunrise
leaps between trees shocked
by the cold of reality
on a morning left behind
by a year
marked with double-time
mis-step
black heels pounding
history’s false rhythm
good evil
light dark
black white
grey pavement winding
forward
the only
right
direction

.

.

.

Joining in over at dVersePoets for Quadrille.

people say you’ve changed
and i say

hallelujah!

about time!

how high?

my feet got bigger
and my hips got wider
and crone was painted every
where i looked in
big red scary letters
or long retracted grey whispers
(and both sound exactly just the same)

i inherited all this anger
from the girl that came before
this rage
raging all around

i’ve been breathing rage
for a year now

a year that broke my heart
in every sideway possible
and screwed it back together
with those cheap screws
that break
when you crank too hard

that makes it sound worse than it was
that makes it sound easier than screaming
that makes it sound so grandiose

when really it was just hours
and minutes and tears and breathing
sweat equity pouring down my back
as i walked for miles and miles and miles
and never did get far enough away

i have calluses stronger than my silence
i have plastic words and a purple parachute
i have this empty body standing tall

and we all sag under the weight
of whittled-down survival

…..

this afternoon
the sky
was filled with geese

winter is coming

winter is coming

at night i hear these words
in the darkness

outside my window

inside my head

your voice

my voice

whisper scream

the possibility

of resurrection

.

.

.

and all these temporary moments
but we crave permanence, don’t we?

i think that may be what makes us human

all these losses
broken promises
little hurts
deep wounds

stem from that desire

and the reality of truth
is always winning

say hello
wave goodbye

each night
each hour
each minute

say hello
wave goodbye

the morning glory
has just one day
to bloom

say hello
wave goodbye

but look
how she loves
the sky

.

.

.

sixteen years later
that’s what we call it

not nine eleven oh one
not September 11, 2001
just
nine eleven

two words

three digits

two towers

four planes

thousands

of

mothers
fathers
daughters
sons
sisters
brothers
wives
husbands
aunts
uncles
girlfriends
boyfriends

not statistics

falling

from

the

sky

not dates
or where were you’s

just whole hearts
in odd numbers

each one

the only necessary

evidence

of love

::

.

I wrote this for the 10-year anniversary
of this tragic, horrid event.

I am re-posting it again today, in honor of all those hearts.

Never forget.

.

today

i walked
in the rain

thunder
hounding

feet
pounding

head held
high

going
nowhere

sorta
fast

.

.

.

i once
built a moon
on a red wall of chapter
singing verse and pressing mortar
into cracks and desperation

all scrabble fingered
and blister burned

pasting love and scraps of
survival
over lies and offered
fiction

all the while pretty singing

this is the light
we eat by

this is the light
i worship at night

this is the light
i fly to

burning wing and hemmed
betrayals

my own false idol
swinging from a string
in the blackest corner
of orion’s night

.

.

.

as the crow
flies

through clouded
skies

my heart
will carry me
home

.

.

.

there will always be days
stretched tight
by the too dry skin
of living

there will always
be evil
rubbing shoulders
with light

always be witches
dancing circles
at night

always a cloud
blotting out
the gold sun

always loss and possibility
mixing chance
in roiling ocean

it doesn’t have
to be enough

or even
filling

warmth is the illusion
of life

parody is pure
in the blossom of sight

and green things grow
from the cracks
in black ice

.

.

.

like the bird
bouncing off
the top studio window
or the tree
bent broken fallen
from harsh storm
and
the grandmother
hearing news
of World War III
or the 12-year-old girl
standing cold
in a dress
called provocative
in a country
still reeling
from impossible
truths

100 days
is a phrase

with no rhyme

or right

reason

.

.

.